The Remnant
by Falcon8492
Summary: A preview of my first Mass Effect fan fiction. A chronicle of the Reaper War from start to finish through the eyes of a disgraced officer and his motley crew of survivors. Sometimes it only takes a few people to make a galaxy of change. *The Illusive Man is a major background character, but does not make a physical appearance. Miranda shows up later in the story.


Chapter 1: Guardian of Hades

Fairchild couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something was very wrong in the state of his organization. Granted, operations in his line of work were rarely transparent or gave one a warm, fuzzy feeling upon completion, but in his eleven years of service he had never experienced such an… atmosphere. Try as he might to shake this icy feeling, try to tell himself it was merely the magnitude of the impending Reaper threat, he knew better. Since Sovereign and the Geth attacked the Citadel nearly three years ago, the stakes for humanity remained unchanged.

With a sigh, Fairchild set the datapad he was holding on the table and reviewed his surroundings: a modest makeshift office on an equally modest unmarked freighter. Though he rather enjoyed serving on the frontlines of humanity's expansion, some days he found himself wishing he could hold onto an office long enough to truly call it his own. As ruthlessly professional as he could be, he held an odd affinity for models and other such sentimental tokens. Alas, he had dedicated himself to the preservation and advancement of all humanity, and there were sacrifices all who answered the call had to make. Head in his hands, he ran his fingers through his short, brown, clean-cut hair and stood.

Fairchild was roughly average in height, and well built. At age 34, he had received extensive genetic modification and cybernetic implantation, courtesy of his then-new employers. Throughout the following 11 years since, he had successfully lobbied to test even more systems. Such augmentations made keeping his body in peak condition virtually effortless. Despite the large amounts of tech woven into his muscles, bones, eyes, ears, and even his brain, he remained far more organic than synthetic. Considering himself a cyborg did not trouble him in the slightest in terms of his humanity, as such procedures sometimes caused in other subjects. Indeed, human biotics received implantation even in Council and Alliance space, and few ever questioned their integration with technology.

"Establishing orbit above Sanctum. All personnel please execute departure procedures," sang the friendly tone of the ship's VI.

Fairchild stepped over to the small window and looked out over the planet surface. His shuttle would not be departing for some time, but he always enjoyed watching the UT-47 Kodiaks come and go. As he observed, he reflected on his concerns, and experienced a sudden chill. All his internal contacts had changed somehow since reporting to this place. Integration, they called it. This was not the first time Fairchild was required to attend such a program. These programs usually consisted of briefings on updates to protocols, operating standards, and sometimes new, advanced training. It was all part of a delicate game to grow and manage an increasingly powerful organization without attracting unwanted attention. However, something as simple as alterations to operational discipline could not possibly cover the changes he noticed alone. There was something wrong in the operatives' communiques, lacking the human touch for lack of a better term. In fact, just the week prior, he had spoken directly to Operative Hutchinson and noticed the same eeriness in her speech as well. Something in how she laughed at his jokes seemed forced and hollow. More disturbing, he had noticed similar changes in some of his higher order Batarian contacts as well. Only, his colleagues and these Batarian sources shared no common affiliation. It also bothered him that despite Fairchild's high position on the chain of command, that he was not apprised of these changes earlier than he had been. Indeed, as far as he was aware, there were only five or so people standing between him and the big man himself. Of course, he could be making a mountain out of a molehill. Intra-organizational distinctions had tendencies to be rather convoluted sometimes.

Frowning, he turned away from the window and picked up the datapad once more. He had been reviewing operational reports, audio and video logs, both his and those of other friendly units he had knowledge of Obviously his superiors saw some pattern that Fairchild could not. He sifted through the data in an effort to fill the gaps in his information, to try to piece together the puzzle that only the highest echelons of his organization had complete access to. Operations were all over the map. His own missions had seen him operating against such diverse groups from the Batarians to the Rachni, Geth, Terminus criminals, and even the Collectors. Surely all were threats to humanity in some way or another, but there were bizarre patterns that all seemed to share. And though he was not made explicitly privy to much of the big picture, he had a strong feeling such oddities pointed to the same source: The Reapers.

The very thought of them made Fairchild nervous. Few in the galaxy knew of their existence, and fewer still believed in it, but Fairchild knew Shepard was right. Conventional weaponry would not be enough to defeat them, and Fairchild's specialty of infiltration and small scale combat operations would undoubtedly be of little use against armies of husks, and entirely useless against the menacing machines themselves. In a way, he felt outmatched, fighting forces that did his job better than he did, and he was one of humanity's best.

"Boarding group Sigma, please report to shuttle bay for planet-side deployment," called the VI.

"_Damn, has it been an hour already?_" he thought. Looking at the monitor on his laptop, he saw that it had indeed. Wiping local copies of his records, he grabbed his bags and his data discs and proceeded to the shuttle bay. As he waited to board, he grabbed onto a small feeling of calm within him. The Illusive Man had never failed humanity before, and Fairchild had always been proud to serve, no matter how odd the mission parameters seemed at the time. After all, such was life in Cerberus.

Chapter 2: Inner Sanctum

The lab was cold and dimly lit. Uniformed scientists scurried about, cataloguing, analyzing, and testing artifacts of various size, shape, and origin. Collector, Prothean, Reaper, and some technologies he did not recognize completely covered table upon table. Although he could plainly see the shimmering containment shields covering all the artifacts, he found himself walking an irregular path, weaving around those stations with Reaper technology. Initially he felt somewhat silly about it, superstitious even, but he knew that his caution was in fact well warranted. He was acutely aware of the dangers of Reaper indoctrination; Commander Shepard found that one of Fairchild's friends from basic, along with the rest of Dr. Chandana's team, had been indoctrinated and willingly impaled himself on a husk spike aboard a derelict Reaper. Though he knew that not all Reaper artifacts possessed indoctrination capability, it was nearly impossible to tell even after extensive testing. Also, given the Reapers' uncanny ability to cleanse the Galaxy of nearly all technological relics save those that they could use to manipulate their hapless discoverers, Fairchild couldn't help but consider Reaper tech to be the ultimate proverbial land mine.

The labs were not his intended destination, and he was already regretting his decision to take this shortcut to from the shuttle hangar to the barracks. Fairchild never felt comfortable around the scientists. In his experience, most Cerberus scientists joined primarily for the ability to pursue their own work free from regulation and morality. While for the most part Fairchild supported the former as a benefit, he took exception to the latter. Lacking a moral imperative, the goal of advancing and protecting humanity seemed secondary to so many of the researchers. Cerberus meant much more to Fairchild than as an organization or a means to implement his personal ideals. Cerberus was humanity itself.

The Cerberus of mythology was a giant, three-headed dog that guarded the entrance to the Underworld, safeguarding the separations of the realms of life and death. Contrary to popular belief, the Underworld was not strictly Hell, but simply the realm of the dead, villains, heroes, and everyone in between. Like its namesake, Cerberus performed a valuable service to humanity, but due to its terrifying nature, was seen as a simple monster. Fairchild further firmly believed that human advancement benefited all life. The benefits of Cerberus' morally questionable work today would allow humanity to achieve the means to act as a force for good in the Galaxy tomorrow.

Emerging from the lab complex into the barracks, he faced a tired-looking security officer.

"Mission authorization?" grunted the officer, not lifting his eyes from the console in front of him.

"Charlie-Sierra-Foxtrot Six-Zero-Six-Two." Fairchild responded.

"Hold still." A translucent field appeared before Fairchild, scanning him a few times over. With a beep, the field vanished and the security officer looked up. "Lieutenant Colonel R. Fairchild, orders confirmed. Report in to integration officer Connors. He'll give you your itinerary. His office is right next to the armory down the hall to your left."

With that, the security officer lowered his gaze once more and resumed his duties. Cerberus security officers had a tendency to be somewhat gruff, and officers like Fairchild had learned long ago to let it go. He did as directed and headed down the long, wide hallway. Armored Cerberus troops performing drill and PT passed in both directions. If there was one thing Fairchild disliked about the new armor, it was the lack of prominent Cerberus insignia. Despite its overuse on other equipment, he felt that if there was one place the logo should be, it was on the armor. Passing the armory, he came to a small door labeled 'LT CONNORS'.

Fairchild rang the buzzer on the panel next to the door, and it slid open. Stepping into the office, he faced a large figure in Centurion-class armor seated at a desk, an M-96 Mattock leaning on the wall next to his chair.

"Mattock, huh?"

"Affirmative. Modified with an integrated smoke grenade launcher. New standard issue for all field officers, sir," barked Connors, his voice distorted through his helmet. "I've been instructed to take you through integration immediately. Here's your itinerary, sir," he said, handing over a datapad. Fairchild reviewed it. He was to spend the next two weeks in what appeared to be a re-hash of basic training, followed by advanced training for large-scale field officer deployment.

"Lieutenant, I've got a few questions-"

"Negative, sir. Direct orders from command, as indicated in your itinerary." Rising, he picked up his rifle and beckoned Fairchild to rise. "Please follow me, sir."

Fairchild felt an ugly, twisted feeling in his gut, but rose and stepped into the hallway. Connors exited the office and escorted Fairchild down the hall. After several twists and turns in the labyrinthine complex, Connors finally stopped abruptly and pointed to a set of double doors.

"In-Processing is through these doors, sir."

Fairchild entered to what appeared to be a conference room. He heard Connors enter behind him and the doors slide shut.

"Lieutenant, I-" His sentence was cut short in an instant. A high-pitched, electrical sound filled his ears before experiencing excruciating pain flowing from the back of his head bleeding into the rest of his body. Spots resembling retinal burns clouded his vision, and a ringing filled his ears. He tried to clear his thoughts but only mustered a mental scream, to gather the energy to flee or fight back but felt a growing impotence in his muscles. "GRRRRRGGGH! AAH, WHA-" Another blow. Falling completely to the floor, he heard the door slide open and three troopers enter the room. As his counterparts surrounded him, he was aware of a warm, wet feeling spreading throughout his groin region, and felt a profound humiliation.

"Take him to the processing center." Connors' voice was barely audible, and a distinct ringing sound accompanied every syllable. Despite his mounting rage and shame, he felt himself slipping away, and was only dimly aware of being lifted from the floor before his vision faded to black.


End file.
